The Magical Adventure of Joe Strange
by ian postre
Summary: Harry Potter fans - check out the real thing - first chapter. Based on people's real experiences of magic. Comment welcome !


The Magical Adventure of Joe Strange  
Chapter 1  
  
The idea that there really were witches or warlocks in Worthing was preposterous to Joe. He had read Harry Potter and The Wizard of Oz and, like so many millions of other children he had wished, how he had wished that it were all true.   
  
His mother did tarot card readings in her spare time from working at Lawler's the china shop. She wore a purple dress that was two sizes too big and, despite protests from al members of the family, a red and gold diamond bindy on the bridge of her nose. His father read the stars in the Argus usually with a great deal of disgust and no small measure of tutting. On the outside Joe had no time for such nonsense, preferring the science of Star Trek. But on the inside, Joe wished there really WAS an Oz or a Hogwarts but in his heart he knew there wasn't.   
  
"It's going to be your day for making new friends... stuff and nonsense, tut, tut" his father would say as he leafed through the Argus.   
His mother said Joe was too young for 'the cards' and his father too old and full of 'negative energies' and would keep them locked away in her bottom draw. What did she know - Joe could unpick any lock at any time, a trick no one knew about. But the idea that there really were witches cowering in Edwardian houses along the Esplanade, that was the stuff of fantasy books.  
  
On the first Sunday of each second month, Hove Town Hall played host to the Psychics and Mystics Fair. Joe's mother looked forward to this event with great anticipation and excitement. She had a stall all of her own, a small affair sandwiched in-between the Bavarian foot massage and the Icelandic Palm reader Ingeborg Plank, a woman so huge that she made Joe's mother look like a toy doll beside her. 'Madame Letrange', as Joe's mother embarrassingly called herself, read 'the cards' for an introductory price of ten pounds (fifteen minutes and you can take notes) or the Full Monty at fifteen (half an hour and a cassette tape to take away). Joe was usually dragged along with promises of double pocket money in return for setting up the stand and watching over it when his mother went for a tea (and herbal cigarette) break.  
  
All in all Joe found the whole business tedious in the extreme. In his younger days Joe had been fascinated by all of the colours and the characters at the fair. He had marvelled at Rainbow Starhawk (alias Deirdre Battersby's) spirit guide trances, or Mr Wong's Chinese herbal medicine with its strange odours and his toothless smiles - he always gave Joe a handful if ginger sweets or a fortune cookie. Then there was Mr and Mrs Glogmire's Tibetan bowl stall with all of the strange bells and copper bowl sounds that they made. And not forgetting Big Jim McAllister's healing crystals - young Joe had been captivated by the gleaming colours and the idea that a piece of rose quartz could help you have lovely dreams if you put it under your pillow, whereas a nice piece of white calcite would stop you being constipated. And he had loved to hide beneath the table of his great aunt Maud (alias Cleopatra the Past Life Reader) as she told Mrs Greenstein (the wife of Mr Greenstein the delicatessen owner) that she had once been a temple guard in ancient Egypt. Or that Anghared the au pair had fought alongside Genghis Khan, which explained her nervous twitch and love of tall hairy men.  
But now it all seemed so normal, so pedestrian. And the problem was that Joe didn't believe a word of it. Not a single, tiny word.  
It was a hot, stuffy Sunday afternoon in early June, and Joe had lugged the long wooden table for his mother's stall all the way up from the town hall storeroom in the basement where it had been stored for the previous day's European tag team featherweight professional wrestling championship. The main auditorium still smelt of last night's night event - the cigarette smoke, the stale beer, and the lingering odour of sweat from the fighting giants. "Why, even that is all fake." Joe said to himself. "No one really gets hurt."   
  
The stallholders were all setting up for another busy day. There were the Greensteins, draping their banner across the way - "Past Life Recall - £15 per session" as Mr Greenstein stuffed the remains of a smoke salmon and cream cheese bagel into his mouth, muttering at the same time: "You're sure Solly will be alright minding the shop, all on his own , Daisy?" "Stop your worrying!" replied his tiny wife, "The boy is forty two for god's sake. Soon he'll be old enough to leave home."  
And there was Big Jim struggling with an amethyst the size of a rugby ball, the pride of his display, and most definitely not for sale. A gift it had been from a woman Jim refused to talk about, a gift, which, despite ever increasing offers from eager customers, mainly students and spinsters, Jim refused to be parted with.  
Joe sighed as he prepared for another boring day of dawdling and doodling. Then, he spied at the far end of the auditorium, tucked away in a corner where chairs were normally stacked ten or fifteen high, a stall being set up that he had not seen at the fair before.   
  
A man who looked like he must be at least seventy or perhaps eighty years old was unloading several cardboard boxes of old and dusty books and carefully placing them onto shelves behind the stall table. A small sign was then carefully positioned above the highest shelf, which read: "Snuffwaite, W., MPhil. PhD., Antiquarian and Interesting Books. Browsers Welcome." Joe found himself wandering across the hall in order to get a better view of the elderly gentleman and his wares.   
  
Before he was even ten feet away from the table, the man suddenly turned around to reveal he was wearing a creased grey suit, a green cravat around his neck, a shock of pure white hair and a smiling gaze from two eyes, one green and one a very dark blue. It was as if he had known that someone was approaching without even needing to look.  
"Strange, isn't it?" he said in a warm, friendly voice that sounded much younger than he was.  
"What's Strange ?" asked Joe.  
"I believe you are." he said and laughed to himself. "Master Strange, I believe. I am pleased to meet you."  
And he held out his left hand inviting young Joe strange to shake it.  
As they shook hands, Joe felt a firm, sure grip and warm but bony fingers. Joe squeezed just as hard and was first to let go.  
  
"How did you know my name ?" Joe asked.  
"Well" said the old man, still smiling, but returning to his unpacking. "I think you know MY name."  
"Well, I suppose it is Mr Snuffwaite. Mr W. Snuffwaite."  
The man chucked. "That's right. You know my name and I know yours. It's just a matter of knowing how to read the signs."  
"But I don't have a sign." said Joe, a little confused.  
"Oh, but you do, Joseph. You do. Everybody has a sign."  
And with that Mr Snuffwaite chuckled again and returned to unloading the boxes of books. He paused at one particularly large volume, very old by the look of it and very heavy. It had a maroon, very dusty cover and its edges had frayed revealing strands of yellowing cloth. Joe noticed the title: "How to read the signs." by Archibald Grim." it said along the spine.  
  
To be continued.  
Comments welcome !  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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